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March 14th 2010    Tim Candler

    Seed Potato arriving by the UPS on Monday.   And yesterday I came close to experiencing death by giant rototiller.   It is a wretched, noisy and ancient contraption, and yet sometimes it is necessary to lead it out of the barn and try to chase after it, while it desecrates soil.

     I blame the butterfly part of idea.  There were never meant to be potato in this bed.  As well, I wanted a xylophone, and now I have a rhombus.   Hardly the outcome of meticulous planning and  adequate forethought.  There is no doubt I have grasshopper in me, otherwise I would have followed an orderly course patterned on the mind of heroes, instead of this nonsense.     

     And yes, I have shredded the roots of creeping grass, a strategy that assures me of many, many hours of cruel weeding when the days are at their hottest.

    But Potato cleans ground.  And there is a brief solace to coddling an ancient engine, hearing it roar, then putting it to work.   It is a boy thing perhaps.  And too, we occasionally enjoy a day or so of deafness, muscle spasms, pinched nerves, because it gives us a chance to remain supine while others wash the dishes and coo at us.

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